


Balsam

by aderyn



Series: Balsam and Birch [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Homecoming, Nature, Reconciliation, Wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:38:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lay each other down in pine boughs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balsam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Snow Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/752877) by [faerymorstan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan). 



> For the lovely [Jude](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/pseuds/wiggleofjudas), thank you so much for inviting me into the wilds of your [Snow Queen ‘verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/43371), magical fractured fairy tale-place that it is. These are set during a voyage home, in the [ “Breath”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/752877/chapters/1435199) chapter of [The Snow Queen.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/752877/chapters/1406013)

They lay each other down in pine boughs.

A raven’s croak in the tree. A fire, crackling, resinous, holds back the dusk, warms their faces, edges their lashes with flame.

The stars are a conflagration overhead, the vault ablaze with asterism.

John points out the Arrow, the Archer.

This far. They’ve come this far. One more true flight.

The night’s urgent, ice cracking on the ponds, icicles breaking, branches heavy with snow and with stars.

A constellation.  A blink. They turn to each other pillowed on packs and boots and heavy robes, tug at one another, fire in their faces, skin burnt against the cold.

“Idiot,” John whispers, “you’re injured still.”

“And you,” Sherlock says.

John’s hands take him then, lemon balm and basil, one season held against another.

“I’ll always want a problem,” Sherlock says miserably to the dark.

_I’ll always want you._

John’s hands give him their table, their tins of tea, the walk to the house of the dead, the weight of their roses in summer and all the days they covered themselves in earth, all the days they waited.

Their bed, hand-carved for a beginning.

“Sleep,” John says, presses close.

_Forgiveness like flame is a plasma._

_Dream._

The Alchemist rises on the horizon.

They wake, twined, to the last of the moon, their bodies scented with balsam.


End file.
